


The Last Conversation

by RemoCon



Category: Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 02:36:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemoCon/pseuds/RemoCon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Rivendell, after the Council meeting, Glóin finds a familiar face he did not expect. Seventy years may have added a few wrinkles to their faces, but the affection between those of Thorin Oakenshield's company remains strong. </p>
<p>(Or Glóin and Bilbo have a nice, overdue chat)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Conversation

When Dain had asked Glóin to lead the delegation bound for Rivendell, the only specific command he had offered was more of a request—to beat that dratted Mirkwood lot there, if at all possible. To be sure, Thranduil’s distaste for even his elven kin could be counted on to delay his delegation’s departure, if only a little. And though it had been many years since he and his companions had been imprisoned by that elf, Glóin was more than happy to comply. 

“Though I don’t know why we’re running off to Rivendell, just because an elf’s called,” he’d added, as Dain eased himself down onto his thrown, trying to ignore the way Dain moved slower these days, loathe to be reminded of his own age, much less contemplate losing another great king. 

“Lord Elrond has been fair, and minded his own business these last seventy years. He would not call if it were not important, and I will not see an important matter of Middle Earth decided without us dwarves. Surely you have seen as much as I, the darkness that has been ever growing in these lands,” Dain had replied. “Now go. I trust you to bring who you feel would be best suited.” 

Riding the fastest ponies the kingdom had to offer, Glóin found himself and his selected companions in Rivendell less than three weeks later, far quicker than the journey would normally take. In hindsight, choosing anyone beside his son would have been the wiser route. If he’d learned only one thing from that quest so many years ago, it should have been the danger of involving family in important matters. Thirteen dwarves trying to reclaim a kingdom had been madness—but nine souls, all mixed and matched from different races, trying to destroy the very spirit of the dark lord? That was folly beyond all telling. And his son, his precious son, would be lost. 

It had taken a great deal of strength to walk away from that council meeting and not forcibly drag Gimli back to Erebor, nor shout at him until some unfeeling Elf came to tell him that they were disturbing the peace, because Gimli, of course, would have done nothing but shout right back. Dain would be pleased to learn that dwarves had such an excellent representative in the so-called fellowship, and Glóin’s blood boiled, ever so slightly, thinking of how Dain would try to reassure him that Gimli was more than capable of taking care of himself, and that if anyone had a chance of coming back successfully, it was him. Glóin knew that. He was well aware of his son’s merits, and did not need his king to tell them to him. Just as he did not need Gimli to explain why he had volunteered to go. He needed a quiet, solitary place to smoke. 

Nothing seemed secluded enough, though, no matter how far he walked. Elves popped up at every turn, and he began to grow more irate at every passing shadow.

“Oh, my… Glóin?” He paused in his trek, and turned, wondering if he was hearing voices, because though a bit more worn than he remembered, he believed that he recognized the one calling out to him, one he had not expected to hear again. An elderly hobbit, clad in a grey-green waistcoat and trying to not lose a shawl draped loosely around his shoulders, stood not two feet away. 

“I don’t know why I didn’t think—I’d heard that the dwarvish group had arrived, of course, but I just never expected—that is you, Glóin?” 

He knew who the hobbit was, but still, he could not trust his eyes or ears to not be deceiving him.

“Bilbo? Bilbo Baggins, our long suffering burglar?” A smile broke out across Bilbo’s face as he padded nearer, the twinkle in his eye apparent, even as the years that hung heavily on him become more so. 

“My friend,” Bilbo said, coming to clasp his hands around Glóin’s. “I did not think I would see you again.” 

“Aye, and I did not think I would see a friendly face here that I did not bring with me,” Glóin replied, holding fast to Bilbo’s hands in return. “I confess, I did not think you would still be…well-”

“Alive,” Bilbo finished, some strange sadness clouding his features. “I take it, then, that no one has fully explained the situation to you.” 

He released Glóin’s hands, pulling out his pocket watch.

“Oh, bollocks, I have to go. I’m supposed to be meeting my nephew,” he explained.

“Nephew?”

“Yes, Frodo. I think you’ve met,” Bilbo said, putting his watch away and straightening his blanket. 

“Of course—Baggins. I don’t know why I didn’t realize,” Glóin said, remembering that brave little hobbit standing up and volunteering to do what none of his supposed betters could agree to. He should have seen then that Frodo could have been no one but a relation of Bilbo’s.

“We’ve all got a lot on our minds, dear fellow. Erm, I have to go, but if it wouldn’t be too much of a bother, would you care to meet up tonight? It’s—it’s been good to see you,” Bilbo said, with a hesitation Glóin did not care to hear. He supposed seventy years was a long time to go without seeing a person, but he rather thought that they’d gone through quite enough together that time shouldn’t be able to put any barriers between them. Though, perhaps they had gone through too much to be comfortable. He knew it could be hard to be near those whose presence reminded him constantly of that terrible day, and he had had much practice, and a suffered a rather different sort of loss. 

Perhaps, too, Bilbo’s hesitation had nothing at all to do with dwarves.

“Certainly. Just tell me where to be and I’ll try to find it before morn,” Glóin said, smiling. Bilbo returned the expression, some of his peculiar gloom lifting.

“There’s a bench I’m rather fond of, near my room, that overlooks the city most magnificently. If you ask anyone, I’m sure they can direct you,” Bilbo said. “Well, I must be off. Until later!”

“Until later,” Glóin echoed. Living here had clearly made Bilbo lose what little grasp he had on good sense—ask anyone, he says. He huffed, his bones creaking as he began his journey to find a spot to smoke again. The Elves would be more than happy to help, and it disgusted him. But, for Bilbo, he would do what he must. 

***

Though Glóin would rather die than admit to anyone aloud, Rivendell had a certain charm when bathed in moonlight and the glow of various fires. A certain sense of nostalgia as well, come to that, for he chuckled, remembering the look on Bombur’s face as the table had collapsed underneath him. Bilbo sat, as promised, on his bench, and the elf he’d been following had vanished as soon as his services were no longer needed. 

“Good evening,” Glóin said quietly, not wishing to startle the hobbit. 

“Ah, Glóin, come, sit!” Bilbo enthused, patting the space beside him as vigorously as his old bones would allow. 

“So, tell me how you have been all these years,” Bilbo continued, once Glóin was settled. 

“I cannot complain. Erebor had prospered again, under Dain, and I have had my wife and son at my side for many years now. Though,” Glóin said, “I do not fancy having to go back and tell her of Gimli’s decision.” 

“Yes,” Bilbo said softly, “It is a terrible thing we must ask of them. If only we were not so old, perhaps, then we could take this burden from them.” 

“Your nephew, Frodo—I wasn’t aware you had any family that close to you,” Glóin offered, trying to keep the conversation light. “You always seemed like such a solitary thing.”

“Hmph,” Bilbo murmured. “The rest of Hobbiton certainly thought I was far too much like that for my own good. But no, Frodo has lived- or used to live, I suppose I gave everything including the house when I left—with me since he was small hobbit. His parents died in a terrible boating accident, but all the same, I have always been grateful for his presence. He had brought a great deal of happiness to many dark days. And I, in turn, have done nothing but ensure that he will know nothing but misery from here on out.” 

Glóin was not one for patience. Durin knows that Gimli’s temper and impulsiveness came from him. Still, he felt sure that Bilbo needed little prodding to continue, and as much as he wanted to hear of something good for a change, it seemed unlikely that he would have such a conversation unless he and Bilbo discussed the bad first. 

“The ring is mine,” Bilbo said after a short while. “You remember? We thought it was so clever and helpful, turning me invisible like it did. And now it will be the doom of us all, or at least the doom of my dear nephew and his companions.

“That is why I am still alive, far past when any decent hobbit would have had the sense to die,” Bilbo said, sighing. “And that, I’m afraid, is what I suspect they have not told you. They felt it did not particularly matter how the ring came to be here, merely that it has, and must be destroyed. But, how could I think that? I said I wasn't a burglar, and doesn't this just prove it. The only things I steal cause pain on scales most people cannot fathom. That, in its own, must be a talent. A real burglar would have had the good sense to leave that godforsaken thing where it was. 

“So I must ask your forgiveness, Glóin, for it is my fault that your son now goes off into terrible danger,” Bilbo finished, quietly, but his gaze firmly trained on his friend. Glóin suddenly found himself thinking of Thorin, as he had not in some time, and how he would be proud to see his hobbit act in such a way, with that quiet bravery that always lurked under the innocent exterior. Glóin could not manage a smile, but he patted Bilbo’s thigh.

“We could have asked more questions about your ring,” he began, “but we didn’t. I think that puts as much blame on us as it does you. As for my son, Gimli is the master of his own fate and no one but his own sense of conscience has sent him on this mission. There is nothing you need to apologize for, so let us be glad that something good has come out of this terrible circumstance and just talk as two long parted friends.” 

Bilbo laughed, short and unexpectedly. 

“I admit, I half expected to wind up on the receiving end of one of the famous dwarf grudges, cursed in the same breath as Smaug and the elves,” he said, his good cheer restored. Glóin saw, now, however, the terrible weight resting on his friend’s shoulders for what it was. He did not image that Bilbo could ever recover fully from such prolonged contact with that evil. 

“That could never happen. Thorin would rise out of the grave to put a stop to it,” Glóin replied. 

“I meant to go to Erebor,” Bilbo said, his smile becoming a little wistful. “I walked out of Bag End for the last time and said that I wanted to go somewhere peaceful to write my book. In my heart, I always thought that I would go back and spend the last of my days there, you know. But the longer I walked, the more age caught up with me, and I found myself here, unable to journey any further.” 

“We would have welcomed you. We would have welcomed you any time before, as well,” Glóin pointed out.

“And you could have come visiting the Shire,” Bilbo returned. “I think we both know what stopped us. Yes, I had Frodo to look after, as you had your family and many important duties, I’m sure. But nothing truly stood between us but a tomb that I have done nothing but think about for seventy years, and yet still I do not think I could face it again.” 

Bilbo looked small, in a way that Glóin had only seen him look once before, and one that had nothing to do with this actual stature. He had not totally lost the faint glow of cheer about him, but Glóin was beginning to think that there was a deeper melancholy in his hobbit friend that would linger until the end of his days. He thought too that Bilbo was not wrong in what he said. But it was not all that should be said.

“He loved you very dearly. More than all of the treasure of Erebor. He realized that, before the end,” Glóin said, a familiar ache tugging at his heart. 

“I know,” Bilbo said simply. 

“So, how is it, living off Elvish food all the time?” Glóin asked, feeling the moment pass. Some hurts never fully heal, but this one they had both made their own kind of peace with, long ago. 

“Not so bad as you are imaging, but also nothing worth discussing. Come then, tell me about the rest of our friends. How is Balin doing?” Bilbo asked. “None of you have been the best of correspondents, let me tell you.” 

“Balin had done very well for himself, indeed. He lives in Moria now, as king, if you can believe it,” Glóin said. “Though I have not heard from him for some time myself. Óin and Ori are still with him, to my knowledge.”

“How excellent!” Bilbo exclaimed. “And the others?”

“Well, let’s see…”

The pair talked well into the night, parting in the morning as Glóin accompanied the rest of his delegation back to the Lonely Mountain. They would never see each other again, at least not on the shores of Middle Earth. Whether they met again in the West, one cannot say. For Glóin’s part, as he passed through the gates of Rivendell, he took this final meeting with his former burglar as a sign that the tides were turning in the favor of good. After all, Erebor was reclaimed when the birds returned, was it not? Bilbo would be his bird, and Gimli would return home safe. Glóin knew this to be true.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to phlogistics for beta-ing this little story for me! And I hope you enjoyed reading it :)


End file.
